


Grayscale

by orphan_account



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Drug Use, Drug Withdrawal, Incest, M/M, Prostitution, Smoking, Underage - Freeform, Weed, and the Death of Innocence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 05:40:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5572978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world crumbles in his hands and he knows change is inevitable.</p><p>He feels so fucking stupid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grayscale

**Author's Note:**

> Please, enjoy my writing. Tis nothing but trash, yearning, smoking and dead things crawling in the brain.

 

**_Diamonds on a silver platter weren’t enough…_ **

**_And you thought about those cigarettes you burned for love…_ **

**_So many others tried to crack your heart_ **

**_Weak defenses are the only things you’ve got_ **

**_And I was blaming you—an ego so inflated_ **

**_And red infatuation so strong_ **

**_Decades overdue…_ **

**_Regretting all the patience_ **

**_I’m sorry that I waited too long_ **

**_So if Jupiter is finally fading out this time_ **

**_Let the fairy-tales we wrote about go black and white..._ **

 

It started after Earth joined the Galactic Federation. Allowing the Federation to have influence over the planet was the beginning of the end.

It started after Earth entered a global economic recession that resulted from the mysterious failures of crops all around the world that Earth scientists had no explanation for. Hundreds of millions starved. Cities collapsed as self-preservation instincts kicked in and authority was seen as a useless joke.

It started when an infectious, extraterrestrial disease killed hundreds of thousands, already weakened by the famine, before it was contained by a vaccine created by the Galactic Federation.

Governments were scrambling to keep the economy afloat and the country together, accepting assistance from the Galactic Federation to keep the populace from erupting into total anarchy. Gromflomites marched out from cargo ships and suppressed the angry protests of the unheard and wronged people of a hundred nations.

The Federation offered a simple but effective plan to stabilize the planet’s economy and increase food production: give them total control of the economy and federal assignment of jobs. The countries of the world had no choice but to accept; even the hard-headed United States’ Congress agreed to foreign control of their economy.

Any suspicions expressed by a conspiracy theorist (or any ‘rebellious’ person) about the Federation's intentions for Earth or its role in the recession and plague were quickly silenced. People who voiced such doubts and mistrust toward the Federation simply disappeared.

Most higher-tier occupations went to extraterrestrial life-forms, as they were far more adept for Federation work. What few humans that managed to keep their jobs through the recession were pushed to the side and only offered menial work. The average human was reduced to working something half the minimum wage for twice the hours.

~~Reduced to a **slave**~~

It started after Rick Sanchez left his family on Dwarf Terrence-9 and was carted off to jail. It started after the Smith family's lives were shattered from loss, evicted from their own home, and forced to live in a cramped apartment due the relocation of residents to make room for the expanding industrial factories.

It started when Morty was catcalled on the street one cold evening.

…

It was late autumn. The weather cooled and the winds became swifter and sharper, a blade to reddening cheeks. Morty was walking back to the apartment complex his family lived at. He was coming back from another rejection of employment. Ever since the recession, every family member had to work to keep a house with running water and lights.

School had shut down months ago from the spread of the plague. It opened again but nobody had time to drop off their kids to school. It wasn’t like there was much to learn anyways. School had become another source for people to be fed Federation propaganda and become another mindless drone in the machine. It was like regular school but on steroids and was actually funded by the government.

Morty shoved his hands into the pocket of his jacket. It was getting colder and the shitty heater the apartment complex had was sputtering its last breaths. No one in the apartment complex had enough spare cash to pay a mechanic. He sighed. He wished he was of more use to his family than a spineless little boy who couldn’t do much more than disappoint people and cry.

Then he heard a jeering call from behind him.

“Hey, human! How much for you to suck my dick? I know you glip glops are poorer than dirt.” It looked a frog, with glistening skin, bulbous eyes, and slender limbs that had extra joints. The companions it was walking with, an orange three-armed humanoid with a tail and some bipedal cat person, laughed at their friend’s remark and Morty’s flushed face.

Morty swallowed.

He thinks of the day his mom came home angry and despairing, fired because the hospital didn’t have enough funding to operate anymore.

He thinks of his dad applying for five jobs at a time and every single one turning him down with a sneer and whispered slurs about a furry ball licker and cocksucker. The arguments between his mother and father only escalated in frequency and intensity, the fractures turning into bleeding cracks that threatened to splinter completely.

He thinks of Summer, working every odd job she can find—the fast-food restaurant, housework at the shiny houses on the other side of town, deals with the shadow people Morty sees her talk to at night when she thinks everyone is asleep—and how it all still isn’t enough to pay the bills for their dirty, overpriced apartment.

His own experience of rejection and unemployment washed over him. He tried to find work in child labor factories (it scared him how fast they started to appear in the wake of multiple overturned laws, courtesy of the Federation’s influence). The fat cats of the operation had taken one look at his thin, small stature and turned him away with a laugh.

 _Not big enough,_ they said in broken English. _Not strong enough for job we need, **human**._

He had even tried pickpocketing to limited success. No one on the street had much money on their person anymore. The high-stake heists on luxurious stores and museums were too complicated to pull off for one person and other thieves had already claimed those territories for themselves. Drug-dealing and mafias were off; he couldn’t handle the ruthlessness and bloody shootouts of the cartels and gangs. The leaders of the rings and gangs could smell the weakness waft off him. _Not that they gave much money to newbies anyways_ , he tried to assure himself the third time a ring of drug dealers refused him.

He needed money and he needed now. He didn’t have any other option than to do something only the truly poor, pitiful, and desperate descend to do.

Morty swallowed down his disgust and dignity and called out, “Fifty Federal Credits!”

The frog alien stopped in his tracks and gave him a disbelieving look. Their companions look at each other with wide eyes.

“Are you serious? Like, really?”

 _Can’t back down now._ “Y-yeah. S-so do you have the money or-?”

The frog alien takes out some wrinkled bills. “Will this do?”

“S-sure.”

It’s done in an alley. He’s not sure if he did a good job but from the sounds the frog-alien makes, they'd enjoyed it. A lot.

The taste of semen in his mouth lingers for hours.

(It was a slippery slope, he realizes later. First a blowjob in an alley then late nights in a dirty bed, sleeping with unfamiliar people and smoking alien cannabis, trying to keep the guilt and shame down before it melted into an uncaring apathy for self-wellbeing or decency.

God, he’s feels so fucking helpless.)

…

Morty takes to the habit of hanging out in the ghettos of the city, around the brothels, where rosy perfumes and musky aromas penetrate the air. He wears black lingerie under his clothes because he has no idea how this works and apparently lingerie is trending for some obscure reason from what he saw on the Internet.

He meets new people. Crackheads (“Got any collaxion crystal? No? Ah, well. Don’t do drugs, kid.”), honest thieves (“I steal shit for fun but since I like you, I won’t steal your pants.”), friendly assassins (“The first step to murdering someone is to have fun and enjoy yourself! Also burn the evidence.”), nice drug dealers (“Hello! Do you want to buy some meth? Cocaine? Weed? Are you sure? Alright sonny, you have a nice day now.”) and, of course, other whores (“If you want to get some customers, you need to show off your ass, not stand in the corner like a dumbass.”).

One fellow prostitute named Alize takes the time to inform Morty that lingerie is always trending and to get the fuck over himself or go home. She gestures wildly with her two of her four arms, pointing to Morty and herself, as she explains the concept of universal kinks to him, her second pair of hands set on her hips.

_This type of work doesn’t have room for body shame or shyness, little boy._

She asks him if he’s a virgin and advises him that if he is, to either charge a fuck ton for his first time or to get experience before booking clients for penetration intercourse.  It was idiotic to try to seduce someone when you had no skills in the “flirting/whoring out your body to random people” department.

Alize checks on him often, looks for him in the shadows of the warehouse turned brothel and talks about mundane things (“Heard about what Makola did to the boss of the Shadowcat Gang? Fuckin’ killed him, man. No, I mean she literally killed him. I don’t know where she is now. The second-in-command turned leader has half of his forces ripping the city apart for her. But they’ll never find her. I should know. She’s my cousin.”). Her presence in the ghettos is a constant Morty treasures. He finds himself looking for a flash of wild orange hair or forest green skin out of the corner of his eye whenever he feels alone or scared when someone is too forward and pressing in their bartering.

 She also gives him some advice on how to haggle (“Don’t _ever_ settle or let them gain control of the deal.”) and how to defend to defend himself if a customer got too entitled (“Carry a knife or gun and go for the neck or balls first. The neck will make them bleed out and the genitals will make sure they can’t fuck you over again.”).

He takes up Alize’s offer of working inside the brothel with her. He loses some money to the Madam who owns the whorehouse but it’s better than the risk of getting stabbed or raped (or both) then left to die on the street as a solo hooker. At least if he does get stabbed or raped (or both) in the brothel, he’ll get treated and the offender will be swiftly dealt with. The Madam does not like her workers to be damaged. It’s bad for business.

The Madam was interested in having a human male in her services. Human females were not unusual in her brothel (they were occasionally in excess) but most males just ended up working in the factories, drug rings, or local gangs.

 _It’s **very** uncommon for a male of your age to be working in this field. Most of your gender are either a good Earth decade older or sex slaves. _ The madam says, her three orange eyes looking down at him from above her bejeweled glasses. She sniffs at him, then wrinkles her nose at Morty’s scent.

_Pfft. You smell like a virgin. Do you have any experience? Besides oral?_

Morty could only stutter out a confession of virginity, the Madam looking at his body with disdain before waving her hand in dismissal.

 _No worries. In my service and under the guidance of your fellow co-workers, you will learn how to make even the most stoic sigh in bliss._ She turned to Alize, who stood to the side of Morty.

 _Alize._ _Show him to his room and give him the basic tour of the place. I will decide who will be his first customer. I want a high price for his virginity._

_Yes, Madam._

His room was on the third floor. It had a window and a small dresser beside a queen bed. He was lucky, Alize said. A lot of rooms don’t have windows, them being located in the interior of the building. Hers does, though. She loves the way wind comes through her window sometimes. And the view isn’t too bad either, with a small strip of sky gleaming from above the decaying skyline of the city.

The Madam called him to her office.

His first client was scheduled in two days.

…

The nearly seven foot alien had navy blue skin, plates of chitin melded to his shoulders and upper back, piercing eyes that were pitch black from rim to rim, and writhing hair like snakes on his head. Actually, they were snakes, yellow eyes staring and tongues flickering at Morty as the Madam and the alien called Hatem discussed the price for Morty’s virginity in a tongue Morty didn’t understand.

Hatem turned to him after an apparent agreement was reached, looked him up and down, and flashed him a smile filled with white teeth sharpened into points. All of twisting snakes moved their heads towards him at the same time. Morty shivered and looked at his feet.

Hatem didn’t speak English but seemed to sense Morty’s anxiety and nervousness as they entered the low lighted room. As they settled on the creaky bed, the dark-skinned petted Morty’s head and ran his hand up and down Morty’s back, massaging the tense muscles.

Morty looked up at him in confusion. Hatem gave him a small smile, showing the top row of his filed teeth.

As much as he wanted to, Morty couldn’t let Hatem do all the work. He signed up for this, hadn’t he? He took a deep breath in and began to peel off his thin layers of clothing. He peeked up to the towering man. Hatem tugged him into his lap and embraced him with thickly corded arms. Morty squeaked in surprise when Hatem started kissing his neck.

He was taken from behind, him whimpering and moaning into the pillow as the strong being curled over his small body, tangling his fingers into the young boy’s curly hair, nails almost digging into his scalp, while his other hand pressed a bruising grip into Morty’s hip. His knuckles turned white as he clutched the silk sheets in a death grip. His arms and legs burned from being clenching upright for so long.

For days after, it hurts to sit down.

Morty gets paid well because most aliens don’t care much about what age or gender the human they have sexual intercourse with is. Many pay top dollar for a “taste of human” to brag to friends about or maybe they’re a little curious about the dirt-poor natives. Sometimes they’re bored or want to have a good time before dragging themselves back to their normal lives. More than a few times, they’re just lonely people, looking for a feeling of intimacy even if it’s a fleeting sensation that leaves them more hollow inside than before.

He started to pay attention to what species of alien species wanted his services. The last thing he needed was to screw someone that ejaculated hydrochloric acid or had poisonous saliva. Or had both.

(Once, he made the mistake of not asking what species a client was, assuming that they were biologically compatible because they looked mostly humanoid.

 _Once_.)

But especially of late, Morty gets customers that have spiky blue hair, a unibrow, and a portal gun in their pocket.

(The familiar faces sickened him.

Then they mocked him.)

…

The first time a Rick approaches him for his services, Morty nearly quits.

He’s in his room at the brothel, taking his break between clients as he changed the sheets and bed, lighting scented candles and a flavored cigarette.

The cigarettes were called ‘flavored’ for their multiple scents, tastes, and diverse simulants or narcotics. They came in all sorts of herbs and varieties like original tobacco (now refined for taste), cinnamon, rose, lavender, citrus, jalapeño, something called glarfoke, strawberry, and other flora to mask the presence of chemicals and drugs.

He didn’t really like regular Earth cigarettes; the thick smoke and nicotine messed too much with his asthma. The flavored cigarettes felt more natural to his lungs; he enjoyed breathing out pretty colored wisps into the low lighted room. The slight high from whatever narcotic or simulant that was packed into the cigarettes was always welcome.

He heard a knock at his door. He put down his cigarette into the porcelain ashtray beside the queen bed and went to open the door.

Baby blue hair. Pale, almost grey skin. A unibrow and some drool oozing from a corner of his mouth. And a portal gun shoved in one of his pockets.

_No, can it be--?_

Morty stared in disbelief at the person in front of him.

A figure—a _Rick_ —clad in leather looked down at him. This Rick has a piercing on his nose and half of his hair was shaven, the remaining half head of hair thrown to the side. His face had a neutral (bored?) expression on it.

Not his Rick.

Disappointment curled his stomach and Morty's voice was stuck in his throat. What did this Rick want with him?

(That in itself was a stupid question to ask himself. Why else would a Rick come to a brothel other than to—?)

The Rick (not his) cleared his throat and glanced away from Morty. He patted his pant pockets for a moment before taking out a bundle of money wrapped in a rubber band. It looked to be over three hundred in Federal Credits.

Oh.

Bile rises in the back of his throat. Not because of what this Rick wanted to do with him, but because this Rick looks so much like his and he’snotsureifhecandothisanymore-

“So, how do you wanna do this?” he asked, hair falling in front of his eyes before he tossed back with a flick of his head.

The idea of an alternate Rick fucking him was almost alien (really? He been fucked by literal aliens so why can’t he handle this?). Social taboos dictate that he cannot take this offer. But he couldn’t ignore the temptation.

(Temptation for what? Money? Sex? The strange feelings twisting in his gut? A curiosity that should be left unsatisfied? Who knows—

Oh, he knows.)

He was- _is-_ aware that some Ricks and Mortys have a relationship that... would be less than popular with most Earth people. A very uncommon relationship.

(Just spit it out. Some Ricks liked to fuck their Mortys. Most of the time, the Mortys enjoyed it because human emotion doesn’t give a fuck about social taboos. Morty wasn’t sure how to think of those kinds of relationships, romantic or not.

But he was curious more than anything else.)

“One condition,” Morty says after a minute of silence, of internal conflict. He descended this low; why not lower still? The Rick (not his) quirks one side of his unibrow, slender fingers still holding the bundle of money. His nails were painted black, the dark color contrasting harshly with the pale skin around it.

_Wow, what dimension did this Rick crawl out of? The emo dimension?_

God, Morty needed a light. Or, better yet, a blunt to get stoned from. “I-I wanna get high on K-Lax. If you can’t get s-some then give me-”

The Rick (not his) waved his hand and smirked. “That can be arrURPPanged.”

….

Smoking cannabis (extraterrestrial or otherwise) was nothing new to Morty. He did it all the time with clients. They didn’t seem to care. A light or two was one of the best ways to relax after a session. He was even familiar with other alien drugs. Some of his customers liked to share their supply with him. Collaxion crystals was a popular substance. With its fleeting but intense highs, the mineral’s effects were often compared to orgasms. Morty didn’t really see the similarities. One was a natural, addictive sensation created by the body to encourage procreation; the other was a powder you snorted to get crazy blue eyes and start tripping so you can have lots coked up sex without getting tired.

Oh well, whatever made his clients pay more.

The dulling of the registration of physical contact was a much appreciated benefit.

(The phantom feeling of fingers digging into his hips never faded; a coat of slime and filth on his skin. In his bed, at night alone, he would claw and scratch at the sensations until red warmth rose from the angry trenches in his skin and coated his fingers and the pain overwhelmed the feeling of being touched by a stranger. The sheets was smeared with crimson, the scent of pennies and iron lingering in his skin as hemoglobin and platelets clotted themselves into dark red clumps beneath his fingernails. The congealed blood in the creases of his skin felt stiff and sticky to the touch. After a while of staring at his bloodied fingers, Morty felt the stupor of natural painkillers set in.

The rush of endorphins to his brain calmed his panic momentarily. He felt so tired. He faded into the darkness, and the stars winking behind his eyes sputtered out and died.)

 

...

 

Jerry left.

He left because he’s not useful, not wanted, simply a—

 _\--parasite to this family,_ he said. _I’m not valued here. I can’t get a job. I’m not happy anymore. This isn’t working out anymore, Beth. Beth, Beth, please. I can’t- I just-_

**_I can’t do this anymore, Beth._ **

He left because he couldn’t handle the crushing failure of unemployment; of disappointing his wife, his family, his own kids. The fractured relationship between man and wife finally fell apart completely and left both with bittersweet memories of a lost love and a happy life.

He left and the last of Beth's resolve and strength dissolved with the final slam of the door and

Beth crumbled.

Beth turned to her wine and alcohol to drown out the pain and grief from losing the only two men that ever loved in her life. One left for her sake and her family’s future. The other left because there’s was nothing left to salvage from a ruined relationship in a broken home, the sickening scent of disappointment and rotting love overwhelming the senses.

She couldn’t keep what few jobs she worked at anymore. The manager smelled the wine on her breath and kicked her out of the fabric store without a warning. The passage of time became a blur, one day of closed curtains and broken wine glasses melting into the next. Every breath was seemed sour and stale; the fermented scent of bitter grapes and broken promises tainting her senses as she threatened to waste away, alone and empty, in her dingy corner of a bedroom.

(Even with all the arguing and fights, Beth had loved Jerry because he always stayed with her through the worst of times.

And now he’s gone.)

….

He found blueprints under the floorboards in his room as they were packing up to leave the house and move to their new, Federation-mandated apartment. Morty carefully folded and crammed them into his suitcase, among the underwear and t-shirts, not completely digesting what they said. For the first week or so, he couldn’t look at them. But now, with nostalgia and curiosity consuming him, he unfolded the paper sheets and searched for the name of each device.

The blueprints had specific instructions in how to build plasma guns, energy shields, and a portal gun.

Morty’s heart skipped a beat.

_A portal gun._

Morty shoved the other slips of paper aside, his attention solely on one plane of lines and alien letters, a sheet that instructed how to build an instrument/invention that could change entire worlds—no, entire _universes_.

He studied the thin papers intensely, trying to make sense of the scribbled writing and sketches. His phone beeped. He looked over at the text message. A customer wanted to know what time Morty was available tonight. The customer was a regular; they liked Morty’s shyness and often commented how cute he was. They cuddled almost immediately after orgasm and stayed for almost an hour after. It wasn’t bad but…

_Sorry Lolant. Busy tonight. Smthg came up. Stupid rent bills, right?_

_Oh ok. Yeah, bills suck. When u next open?_

_On Wednesday. Don’t have anyone in that slot. you okay then?_

_I can do that. See you then. :)_

Morty made a mental note to change his phone number and to ask Alize if stalkers were a common problem among prostitutes. Lolant wasn’t invasive (yet) but Morty wanted stop a dilemma before it started. He set his phone aside and continued to look over the detailed plans of Rick's greatest accomplishment.

The parts Morty needed to build the portal gun are expensive and illegal (not surprising, knowing Rick and his inability to give a single fuck to higher authority). He would also need a translator of some sort to figure out what the notes along the margins were saying. He could use the Internet for that unless Rick used a cipher or something. Morty really hoped he didn’t.

Morty took a deep breath. This was something he could get behind. This was a chance to get Rick back, holy _shit_. He could do something for once in life other than wait for someone to save him from the shithole he was stuck in.

 _I can do this._ Morty swallowed and the paper in his hand crumpled slightly between his fingers.

_No. I **will** do this. For Mom. For Summer._

_For Rick._

...

She couldn’t do it.

Beth couldn’t bring herself to ignore the two young, persistent bodies that lingered outside her locked bedroom door to intently listen for sounds of movement and breathing, for some sign that she hasn’t tried to kill herself _._

 _Moving is a waste of time,_ her brain told her. _Why bother if you can’t do anything else but cry about your problems?  Your children are hungry but you’re so weak, you can’t even get over a man who left you to the wolves. The spineless man you married has finally given up on the disgrace you called a relationship and now you want him back?_

_How pathetic._

_Jerry…_

Jerry’s subconscious created a terrifying mytholog that represented something far stronger and smarter than she could ever hope to be. A warped perception that somehow managed to get along with her own distorted view of her husband, a spineless worm, far better then she, the real Beth, could ever hope to do with the real Jerry.

This is true. Beth was not the terrifying, monstrous being Jerry imagined her as. She is, in fact, very intelligent but has abandonment issues (which are understandable, as her father disappeared for twenty years and whatnot) and is often self-absorbed, regretting life choices and wondering about what could have been (not abnormal for many people her age). Her binges of wine drinking are a side effect of lost opportunities and suppressed emotions, mostly dissatisfaction.

But to say Beth was weak or broken was a gross overstatement.

If there was one thing Beth was not, it was a neglectful mother (at least in this dimension). Yes, she makes mistakes, like telling her daughter she was an unwanted pregnancy (that was a pretty bad one…) or allowing such an awful marriage to fester (but she and Jerry had _tried,_ hadn’t they? _)_ while her children were (are still) struggling to come to terms with their own mortality and sense of purpose as their grandfather drags (dragged) them across the cosmos to almost certainly scar them for life.

But in a total sense of responsibility and child care, she is not a bad mother.

She did, after all, allow her father back into her life; even though she had every right to refuse him, she allowed him to live in her house, eat her cooking, and take her son (and occasionally her daughter) on very dangerous adventures that she would not have allowed to continue if she knew everything they did on those high-stakes adventures. She provided the minimal for raising children: no physical abuse, food, running water, education, etc. She also gave them a sense of security, constants to rely on, and a Home, which are all very important to a child’s emotional and psychological development.

~~(And most of all, she loves them. She regrets and wants but _she still loves her kids_.)~~

So, all in all, Beth is not a bad nor negligent mother. She cares very much about her children, more than about her self-pity or ego-centric problems.

So. She gets up.

She gets up and does the laundry.

She gets up and washes the dishes.

She gets up and sweeps the rooms.

She gets up and reorganizes the boxes of pasta in the pantry.

She gets up and says good morning to Summer and Morty.

She gets up and makes ham and eggs for three.

She gets up and vacuums the thin carpets in the living room.

She gets up and pours herself a glass of wine to either dump down the sink or sob into.

She gets up and cleans the worn sheets and blankets.

She gets up and folds the clothes.

She gets up and makes mashed potatoes and steak for three.

She gets up and kisses Morty goodnight even he’s fifteen and doesn’t look tired.

She gets up and looks for available jobs online, calling each and every phone number because she knows can’t afford to lay around in bed and let her kids to all the work.

She gets up and does the laundry.

She gets up and washes the dishes.

She gets up and makes bacon and eggs for three.

She gets up and pours two glasses of wine she’ll dump in the sink later but stares into the crimson pools now with no clear purpose.

She gets up and feels like going back to bed and never waking up.

She gets up and, even though her legs struggle to carry her weight, walks outside to breathe in some air that hasn’t gone through a vent.

She gets up and makes pancakes and eggs for two because she needs to go shopping.

She gets up and goes to the grocery store to buy basic necessities: toilet paper, milk, eggs, water, wine...

She gets up and smiles at Summer, asks her how her day was at work.

She gets up and asks Morty where he works at, to which he stutters out, “A massage salon.”

She gets up and does the paperwork for her new job; it’s a customer service line for retail, something about refunds or item returns. It’s bearable. It’s _something._

She gets up and does her best to take care of her children because that’s the only thing keeping her going now.

She gets up and makes pancakes and eggs, says good morning to Morty and Summer, gives them a small smile, and wishes she could do more for her kids.

 

…

Morty doesn’t change his phone number. Alize told him that if Lolant was a stalker, they’d be doing a lot worse than just texting him a lot.

_They just wanna be your friend, dumbass. Maybe they actually like you for your personality and shit, not just for, like, you know, the curve of your ass. Ask them out on a date or something, that can’t hurt anyone. Unless they try to kill you but you gotta take chances in life, Morty._

(Morty winces at that last part. Sometimes, Alize sounds so much like-)

Lolant is cuddling him, their head rubbing his chest, purring with content. He sighs and cards his fingers through their long silky hair that sticks to their sweaty skin. Their bodies are tangled together, cold arms curled under the sheets and lungs that puffed poisonous gas into the air expanded and shrunk in their cages of bone and cartilage.

Humans convert oxygen gas into the waste product carbon dioxide.

Fallorkians, what this client called their race, convert carbon dioxide into oxygen.

Like plants, Morty had commented. Lolant tilted their head, four of their six violet eyes stared at him quizzically. The other two orbs were on the door and window, alert for danger.

 _What kind of plants does this planet have?_ They asked. _My planet’s plants take in oxygen. Are your plants anaerobic then?_

The word _anaerobic_ flew right over Morty’s head so he answers _yes._

Lolant giggled (“That’s so _fascinating_ ”), threw their arms around Morty’s sweaty chest and kissed his neck, their lips warm and chapped, bits of skin brushing against Morty’s jugular. He returned the embrace with sore arms and a tired smile.

One cold night in bed Lolant, with their face buried in Morty’s neck, tells him, _I’m lonely. I’m sorry for pushing my needs on you. Sometimes I feel alone and-and this isn’t a good way to solve that, is it?_

Morty touched their soft hair _. Th-that’s s-sort of my job, you know? Getting rid of people’s needs. At-at least for a while._

Lolant tilted their head up, all eyes on him. _Am I just a job?_

Morty thinks. Then reached up to cup the dark cheek of his partner with his hand.

_Not anymore._

He takes in a deep breath.

_Do you wanna go on a date?_

Lolant quiet for a long time, head to the side and breath puffing on Morty’s skin in warm exhales. Their mouth opens—

Their first date is at this weird café that has a ‘Wild West’ theme with jazz music playing from a loudspeaker. Morty orders hot chocolate and Lolant orders French vanilla.

Lolant is lovely person with bright purple eyes. Morty likes them. He laughs at their stories and Lolant thinks his clothes and hair look nice. Lolant is an intelligent being with a bachelor’s degree in Fallorkian Herbology. Sometimes, Morty feels stupid compared to them even though Lolant assures him that he isn’t stupid or dumb.

(Not an unfamiliar feeling to him.)

Their relationship ends after two months. Lolant is looking for something in Morty can’t give to them because he doesn’t like them romantically enough. Morty clung on for a feeling that resembled affection and love beyond physical touch. It’s a mutual breakup. Both recognize they can’t fulfill each other’s needs and expectations for romantic love no matter how pleasant and friendly they are to each other.

Morty still keeps in touch with Lolant even though they no longer call him for his services. They occasionally go out for coffee or yogurt. Lolant likes to talk to him about plants and movies. Morty enjoys the time away from home and the brothel. For a moment, Morty can forget the cold shakes that remind of his ~~addiction~~ need for K-Lax as Lolant’s tinkling laughter rings in his ears.

 _It was a nice thing while it lasted_ , Morty thinks as he lays in bed. His eyes close and stars are shining behind his eyelids, slowly growing in brightness until they implode under their own mass and create blackholes not even light could escape from.

His consciousness fades into blank sleep and Morty breathes in.

…

Summer knew.

She wasn’t an idiot. She knew what kind of… _work_ Morty was doing when he sneaked out at night and came back hours later with a pocketful of cash, sometimes sore and tired, sometimes limping like he just got his ass kicked.

(No, like there was a stick _right up his ass---)_

She was pretty sure she was the only one who knew. Mom, while she began to move around again after a week of isolation and sobbing, paid little attention to their activities outside the home. Mom was trying to be a good mother, getting up and doing chores even though she was dead inside, Summer understood Mom was trying her best, but she didn’t know what Morty was doing to help their family survive.

She and Morty were on their own now. Summer couldn’t deny that anymore. And they’re going to be alone until Mom got better and stopped drinking but even then Summer wasn’t sure if they could rely on her to keep going without relapsing into depression or alcoholism because all the therapists were either dead or gone.

For now, no one else was going to work for meager pay to keep the lights on. No one else was going to sell their fucking body to bring in most of the money that lets them keep a tiny apartment and pay half of the bills because one person working for shitty pay isn’t enough.

No one else was going to be useless when it came to helping her little brother because even though she found out a month ago, she can’t bring herself to descend to that level and do what Morty was doing and help him for fuck's sake.

She told him to stop, what the _fuck_ was he doing, but he couldn’t stop because they need money. Nothing else brought in as much income as whoring out your body, besides immoral assassination and risky thievery. He couldn’t do the former and the latter wasn’t enough and-and—  

_Summer, please. I-I wanna stop but I **can’t**. I-I need the money. **We all** need the money._

_S-summer_ , _wh-what if I could bring **him** back?_

 _He’s not worth it_ , she wanted to say, wanted to yell at his idiotic dreams of normalcy. _He’s not worth popping blue pills for STDs and condoms on the dresser._

She tried to keep Morty from going out at night by locking his door from the outside until they could figure out a better plan than prostitution.

Morty pounded and yelled at the door for approximately three seconds before everything suddenly went silent. Summer went to check on him only to discover the tiny window near the ceiling had been cracked open with Morty nowhere in sight.

When he came back, he looked at her with a tired but determined look.

She was tired of his bullshit. Who the _fuck_ wants to go to work as a hooker?

 _Do you actually like this?_ She asked, hair down and fingers combing through it.

 _O-of course not._ He replied. _But it’s my job. I-I have to do it._

 _Well, it’s a shitty job_. She said, annoyed.

 _S-still a job._ He walked away and went to his room to sleep for the day.

Summer sighed, turned back to the flickering television, and continued combing her hair with her fingers because the weird hoarder downstairs stole her only hairbrush.

(And that was that.)

Summer can hear Morty whimpering and crying at night. She goes to his room to bandage the long, angry scratches that cover his arms and legs and body. She comforts him when he buries his face into her neck and sobs. She strokes his shaking, sweating back when the panic attacks threaten to overtake him. She makes sure every morning he takes his medicine. She makes sure his inhaler is in his bag of weird shit (probably alien dildos) and condoms before he goes out. She makes him take off his clothes and checks for bruises and cuts, ignoring his complaints for privacy and decency.

(Like he has any left.)

She can’t do anything to help him. She can’t tell him she knows how he feels because she’s not a prostitute (not like when he consoled her from running away with the backyard grave of her ‘real’ brother).  She can’t do anything but work and work and work (and maybe do dark dealings with strange shadows that put her immortal soul at risk but whatever) and hope that all of that work (and blood) will do something to get some of that heavy burden off Morty’s back.

(Not even the dealings she does with the shadows ( _demons_ , her instincts hiss but she ignores them) do much to help. They can manipulate the minds of managers into giving her raises and cutting her slack. They can chase off workers and people to open up slots and get some irritations off her back. They can slip her some energy and food when she's running on four hours of sleep, all in exchange for a few years of her life.

But they can't eliminate that Galactic Federation or its influence. Not without a heavier price than years of life or a pint of blood.

They can’t help Morty beyond giving her first aid supplies and salves to heal Morty’s wounds. Not without messing with his dreams and mind which she will never allow.)

She can’t do anything when he comes home with a black eye except put ice on it and track down and beat up the guy who did it.

(The sly grin the oily silhouette gave her when it suggested mindplay to ‘soothe’ Morty’s mental anguishes was more than enough to shut down the deal and any hopes Summer had of a quick fix for Morty’s problems.)

Morty is bleeding and all she can do is stitch up the wound and wrap his sores with ace bandages and ice. She can’t stop him from going out at night and risk getting stabbed by some drunk asshole.

He assures her that the likelihood of him getting shanked or raped was very low since he worked in a brothel. There were occasional mishaps with some clients but they are taken care of.

 _Like that time you got punched?_ Summer huffed.

 _I’m f-fine, Summer._ He paused. _Mostly._

Summer threw a shoe at him. Then laughed.

She can’t do anything.

(God, she feels so fucking helpless.)

…

Cold hands wrapped around his thin neck, slowly tightening and he could only struggle to sip at the air, back arching, arms seizing, lips puckering and turning _such a pretty shade of blue_ , his pseudo lover cooed, stroking the side of his cheek with their  third hand as a fourth kept an iron grip on his wrists, pinning them above his head, away from the knife Morty hid under the pillow and he could hear muffled pounding at the door, Alize screaming his name before bursting through the red painted wood with a hatchet in her two upper hands and a knife in each of her lower ones and warm turquoise covered him and he slept for a long time—

….

Days passed, Spring budded from Winter, the Earth spun on, and Morty changed.

He became adept at luring potential clients to dark corners and his room with half-lidded eyes and a sway of bare hips. The scent of citrus and marijuana always seemed to linger in the air around him. Lean muscles developed, some out of skill of hand but mostly for the aesthetic of curious visitors, a display of the human beauty and physique to be observed and caressed. Slender limbs strengthened and elongated as adolescence progressed and baby fat began to melt away to reveal cheekbones and an almost delicate jawline.

Late nights gave him bags under his eyes and occasional shakes when he stayed up longer than twenty-four hours.

Not from drugs. Morty learned his lesson of addiction when Alize made him go through three long weeks of shitty, nauseating withdrawal from collaxion crystals after she found a stash under his bed. It only worked because Alize didn’t let him eat or drink anything she didn’t give him and took him out of the brothel for about twelve days to stay at home and recover. He didn’t even touch cigarettes or weed for two weeks after the excruciating treatment.

 _This is what you fucking get for getting high every time someone fucks you, Morty,_ Alize told him as he vomited into a toilet. All four of her arms crossed her chest as she sneered at his misery and stupidity. _You become a fucking crack whore who charges five credits for a blowjob, you dumbass. I’m trying help you, you crack whore fucker._ She yanked Morty’s sickly green face out of the toilet by the hair and glared at him with disgust, her pupils dilated into thin slits. _If the madam found out you were snorting K-Lax with every client that offered you some, your ass would be on the street faster than you can say,” Oh motherfucking shit.”_

When he complained to Alize that he was losing money by staying at home, she responded by throwing a bundle of three hundred credits at his head and giving him a punch in the stomach, making him puke into the bag he had by his side.

_This is how much your bitch ass would have earned if you weren’t a crack whore, dumbass._

She later punctuated his debt to her by making him clean her room at the brothel and her small apartment with bleach and a toothbrush until the floors shone and the rooms smelled of lilacs and little boy tears.

Oh yeah, he definitely learned his lesson.

His skills with knives and guns became more accurate with some teachings taught by some of the older whores and Alize at the brothel because you can never be too careful. They varied from target practice, anatomy lessons of different species, how to not to stab/shoot yourself, and how to weasel out of a chokehold. It was easy to get the hang of guns since he already had previous experience with most models with—

_~~Rick~~ _ _._

Weak spots were usually a soft underbelly, eyes, joints, neck, between the legs, or the genitals (if they had any). Easy to stab unless the assaulter had a hard outer shell but those species don’t pose much of a problem to Morty. He could just stab them in between the plates of their armor if they got too annoying.

Ricks visiting him on an almost daily basis quickly became the norm for Morty. It became too easy to please Ricks sometimes; begging and stuttering for the Rick to fuck him always seemed to get them off quickly.

Most prostitutes in the brothel thought the alternate Ricks were just one very regular customer that liked to try a new style every other week for some reason. Alize didn’t ask much about the Ricks, just congratulated him on having a steady source of income after the tenth time a Rick visited him. She also asked him what was his secret on fucking that guy so hard he came every other week for another bite of his sweet ass.

_Like, seriously, are you doing bondage or roleplay with that guy? What the hell are you doing to him that makes him your bitch?_

He almost tells her, _oh, you know, being an alternate version of his grandson he has a romantic and/or sexual attraction towards. He doesn’t feel like engaging in pedophilic incest sex with his own Morty so he just takes out his fantasies and frustrations on me. Oh, and it’s not just one; it’s a bunch of versions of my grandpa that want to fuck their Mortys. Also I stopped giving a fuck around the twentieth Rick._

Instead he just says, _I j-just call him Daddy when he’s balls deep in me. I-It works to get him off every time._ It wasn’t an _entire_ lie. Some Ricks had weird kinks. Scratch that, every Rick had weird kinks.

Alize raised an eyebrow. _Really?_ Then she rolled her eyes. _Whatever, Morty. Be selfish like that. I won’t give you the leftovers from my classy as fuck lunch when I work that asshole fat cat again._

Morty shrugged. _I never liked glazed kamflark anyways. It hurts my stomach._

_Well, fuck you too, Mortimer._

(He is thankful for the many things Alize has done for him but he could never truly stomach the sickly sweet insectoid she gives him after her escort jobs. He ate only to appease his friend’s excited look (“ _Look, Morty. It’s still twitching!_ ) and violently threw up in the trashcan once she had left the room.)

Motty notices after that particular conversation, Alize brings him a burger instead of glazed kamflark after the escort lunches.

He never knew he could hug a person so hard. He hasn’t had a burger in _so long--_

Alize punches him.

_Little bitch._

…..

“H-hey, Alize?”

“Hm?”

“C-Can, can I eat you out?”

“What?”

“I-it’s j-j-just that like, like I um, really suck at eating u-uh, um, girls out s-so uh-”

“You want to practice on me? No joke?”

“Y-yeah. Y-you, you, oh my god, I’m so s-stupid. J-just forget it. I-it's, it's-”

“Sure. Where do you wanna do it?”

“Huh?”

“Listen, Morty. It's not everyday someone offers to eat me out with no strings attached. I’m not gonna pass up this opportunity. Unless you’ve changed your mind…?”

“Uhh, nono. So, like, when do you wanna-?”

“Tonight. My room. Come over when you’re done for the night. Alright?”

“O-okay.”

“See you then, little boy.”

 

…

 

“H-how, how the fuck did you end up like this?” Rick asked, tucking a yellow jacket in his bag as Morty reached for a cigarette on the dresser.

They’re in bed with the sheets covering their naked bodies and their clothes strewn on the floor. Rick of Earth Dimension G-395 is looking at him with an incredulous expression, like he couldn’t imagine a sweet, innocent Morty working as a whore.

Morty eyed him. Most Ricks just did their business and left, though some liked to take him out for ice cream before the bedroom. Morty tries not to cry during those jobs. A Rick pitying him was not unusual but somewhat uncommon. They gave him extra cash, wished him luck on his whoring and left with a promise to revisit him.

(They never did.)

“I need money, like everyone else here.” Morty answered.

“No shit. I meant, like, w-where the fuck is your Rick?” G-395 pressed. Morty growled.

“In fucking jail, that's where.” Morty said curtly as he lit a cigarette. “I don’t feel like talking about it.”

“Oh.” G-395 looked away and picked at the soft blankets with his fingernails. “But don't you have family or something?”

“Y-yeah. B-but my da- Jerry left. M-mom lost her job and Summer's does some odd jobs to pay her half of the bills and some shady shit with the shadows.”

“Are you _fucking serious_? That-that _asshole_ left Beth and you kids? I didn’t think he had the balls to leave the house. Why the fuck did-did he leave?”

“I dun- dunno why the fuck he left. Maybe he was t-tired of all the fighting he and Mom had. Prolly ‘cause he couldn’t get a fucking job for the life of him.” Morty blew out a stream of smoke. “Why do you care?

“Because you look like shit, that’s why.”

“I’m fine as long as I get paid.”

He rolled his eyes and took out his wallet “How much?”

“Four hundred.”

“ _What?_ What for?”

“I gave you two blowjobs, the regular, and you made me wear that fucking jacket.” Morty jerked his head to the piece of fabric in the bag next to G-395.

A slight blush spread over G-395’s cheeks as he glared at Morty. “Alright.”

He handed over some folded bills. Morty shoved them under the mattress. G-395 dressed and took out his portal gun. He turned to Morty, who was watching him with a cigarette in hand.

“Y-you know, I don't, I don’t- I wouldn’t mind having another Morty.”

Morty nearly inhaled the cigarette in his mouth.

**_No._ **

He coughed and sputtered as he struggled to form a coherent response.

He managed to take a breath. He looked at G-395 up and down before he said, “That's…” He struggled to find the words. “… _sweet_ of you to offer.” _Fuck you too, pal._

Morty exhaled through his nose. “But no th-thanks. I have…some business to finish here.” Morty picked up the fallen cigarette and crushed the tip in the ashtray. “I need to s-stay in this dimension to do some things.”

“Hm.” G-395 turned toward the window and shot open a portal, a green glow illuminating the room.

“I'll- I'll see you around, then.”

Morty said nothing.

There’s two quiet footsteps, a zing through the air as a tear in the veil between universes zipped itself closed, and everything became quiet.

There’s a bird outside his window, perched on the still. It cocked its head at him, then fluttered off.

Morty closes his eyes and sees the Helix nebula beckon to him in the space between the lenses and retinas of his eyes, an imprint that lingers long after the image itself has faded. Like ashes from a fire or the aftertaste of a pungent food that makes a stomach twist in agitation.

Or like the echoes of a memory he can no longer recall.

He lights a blunt this time, the sweet and nutty smoke filling his lungs and clouding his brain.

(Sometimes, he feels like he can’t do much more than smoke weed and hope the memories fade while he sleeps.

But he doesn’t want to forget.)

…

Alize and him are sitting on the roof of a warehouse, purple smoke drifting into the star-scattered sky from their open mouths, plutonian molly between their fingers, and the ashes falling from their rolled up cherry red highs onto the cracked pavement below. Satellites and spacecrafts hover above their heads, jets and engines firing constantly to hover against the pull of the Earth’s gravity.

Alize leans against him, gazing at her newly manicured nails, each of her four hands painted a different color. Red, blue, orange, purple, yellow, green, all dazzling and beautiful, the myriad of glittered shades reflecting and refracting the starlight in a thousand directions.

“Mortimer,” she murmured. “Means ‘dead sea’ or ‘of the still pond’. Originally from the Earth country you humans once called ‘France’.” She slowly exhaled a plume of smoke. She tilted her head up to Morty, curious and dazed from the cannabis flowing in her veins.

“Did you know that? Did you know that your name means-”

“Dead sea,” he repeated. He huffed out a smoky breath. “Huh. I wonder why my da- Jerry named me that. Probably a family name. At le-least it fits me. I feel dead.”

She blinked. Then a smile slowly spread across her face. She blows a cloud of smoke into his face, serene in her state of marijuana-induced bliss.

“You don’t know the first thing about being dead, little boy.” She flicked the ashes from the blunt hanging her index and middle finger into the air to tumble uselessly in the wind.

Morty focuses on the way her shimmering hair manages to look aflame even in the faintest light. He wonders if her species has evolved to capture and magnify light a million times over or if Alize is an anomaly among aliens. Either way, if she is captivating in the starlight of Artcturus and Izar setting her face alight with wonder and serenity, then she must be absolutely stunning to look at in the glow of destruction and plasma lights, as she was surely born and bred for madness and desire and war.

_And in a hundred million billion worlds, you will not met another such as that one, that star of hellfire and life._

They stay like that for a while, wisps floating into nothingness and sirens screaming in the distance. Morty thinks of the weed in his hand and the ever-shrinking plan-no, the celestial dwarf , and the inhabitants that were doomed to suck themselves dry as they indulged their material desires and ignored all the signs of their inevitable demise.

_We are all fools._

Morty wishes he could weep for them, but he’s too high to feel sadness, only pity for the dying world.

Alize broke the silence with a whisper of a voice, shuddering and wavering like water droplets disturbed by the wind, as if she was afraid someone might overhear.

“I woke up alone in an empty shed. I don’t remember anything before that. I came here as a stowaway in a cargo ship to make some money off the tourist boom and maybe hide for a bit. I can’t stay in one place for too long because sometimes, I see people follow me. I don’t know why. I just know I can’t let them catch me.” She looked away.

“I almost have enough money to get out of here. A few more days and-and— Morty please don’t look at me like that. You know why I have to leave. I-I have to keep moving. They’re after me. Morty, _please_ -”

His eyesight is beginning to blur. The haze of marijuana in his brain isn’t enough to dull his emotions for this. He knows he can’t be selfish but suddenly he’s choking on the smoke, trying to say what he never said to Rick.

_Why Alize? Alize, why? I don’t want you to go, not you too please Alize, Alize **please** —_

Iridescent liquid is welling in Alize’s eyes. Sulfuric acid spills onto her cheeks and drips on Morty’s shoulder. It’s burning through his sweater and starting to sizzle against his skin but he doesn’t care. He wants the pain, wants his flesh to be burned scarred _eaten_ by Alize’s tears just as long as she _stays._

“I think- I think- we’re gonna meet again. I’m not much for fortune telling or any of this sappy shit but I can feel it in my bones. Maybe not next year, maybe not even in five years.” She wraps her hands (warm, so warm) around Morty’s shaking ones and she’s trying to bring the blood back into his pale, cold fingers. She inhaled and let out a shaky breath, humid air caressing Morty’s face as it dissipated into the atmosphere.

“But trust me, Morty, when I say we will meet again. Because, because you’re the first friend I’ve had in long time and-and- I’ll make sure that we’re gonna talk again about that time you couldn’t throw a knife for shit so Keya started to throwing knives at you to make you learn and wasn’t that fun? Okay, it was pretty scary but-but we’re gonna talk again and we’re gonna have so much fun. Aren’t we?” And she looks at him with a cracking smile and sad hopeful eyes.

And Morty can’t make his voice work.

Her eyes are aglow, the _tapetum lucidum_ of her retinas reflecting the faint light a thousand times back into the outside world. The pupils dilate, thinning into thin slits at the flash of headlights of a passing hovercraft before expanding into black pools that consume her hazel irises; the entirety of her eyes swallowed by a void that reflects the hazy city lights and glow of distant stars, transforming waves of photons into a single plane of yellow-green light.

Her illuminated eyes are boring into the essence of what he called a self, tears of acid burn a hissing promise into his shoulder, her voice is whispering about the seventh lost sister, the lost pleiad, and he opened his mouth before his sadness could well over his eyes and—

…

Rick came back.

Rick came back because no prison can hold him. He came back because nothing stops Rick from getting what Rick wants. He came back because he is a cunning man, always alert for the slightest chance of escape, to save his skin from rotting in a prison.

He came back like it was nothing more than an inconvenience, because breaking out of a Federation maximum security prison was child’s play to the intergalactic terrorist Rick Sanchez. He stepped out of the portal, dusted himself off, wiped the blood from his mouth, looked around the tiny room and saw Morty staring at him, mouth open and eyes wide with a bottle (is that _liquor_?) in his hand that slipped from his grasp and shattered against the cracked tile; shards that glittered in the fragmented moonlight cut red trails on the boy’s feet and legs as shock and disbelief painted itself across Morty's face and-

Rick came back and Morty was _angry **.**_

How dare Rick come back as if he had just gone for a booze run ( _I’m going to get ice cream-_ )? As if Morty didn’t go to hell and back to try to support his sister and mother and keep this shitty apartment. As if Morty didn’t spend thousands of credits and risk his life trying to build an invention a hundred organizations coveted. As if he doesn’t have a half-finished portal gun under his bed and a half-formed plan to save his sociopathic asshole of a grandfather. As if Rick didn’t abandon Morty and Summer and Beth on that stupid tiny planet to be picked up like mail packages.

_As if Rick never left and rip out a bleeding hole in his family to be forcibly ignored but never filled as he was taken to an unreachable place, taken to prison and-and—_

Rick came back and Morty **_screamed._**

 

…

 

Morty threw a fucking bottle at him.

Rick didn’t even know where the kid got the extra bottle from. The one in his hand had already broken against the floor so how the fuck did he get another one so fast and it’s coming right at his head-

Rick ducked, covering his head with his arm, and heard the crash-ringing of glass shattering on the wall behind him. He felt shards bounce against his prison jumpsuit and clink on the concrete floor of the living room.

A scream of agony and rage burst from fragile lungs, ripping and tearing airways open, scraping smooth muscles raw and red.

_“Y-y-you **asshole**! You left us! You left **me**!” _

Something was finally free to howl and as the cause of its anguish was before of it, the cover was torn away and it was left vulnerable and unarmed and the cause of misery and anguish simply _stared_ at the writhing mess of emotions in disbelief and salt water was dripping and leaking from two pairs of eyes now.

A disgusting wad of remorse was crawling up Rick’s windpipe and squeezing his voice into a scratchy lump as he watched the pathetic human shake with repressed rage.

_“I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! **I hate you!** ”  _

The boy (no- teenager now, he had grown leaner and taller and gangly and suddenly Rick was reminded of his old age-) was crying with pain and raw emotion, face contorted and ugly as mucus dripped from his nose and he choked on his grief and anger. His body quaked as tears ran down his face, eyes red and shining. Bare feet stepped over broken fragments of glass, transparent daggers digging into the soft flesh of a sole and red streaks trailing behind stumbling footsteps as they approached a frozen statue of a man.

Morty banged his fists on his grandfather's chest in a half-hearted attempt to make Rick feel some form of pain before curling his arms around Rick's torso, burying his face into his prison jumpsuit. Rick felt the fabric begin to wet and stick to his skin.

“Y-you, you left us, y-y-you dick, a-and y-you, you—” Morty’s breathing was ragged and harsh; his voice frayed and breaking.

“You came back. You came home.”

The clump in Rick’s throat subsided and a cracking whisper, something like a decaying yellow paper about to crumble in the hands of a reverent reader, escaped from his mouth.

“Morty…” _What have you done to me?_

Morty hiccupped. The sobs were rough and sharp, grating on Rick's ears. He winced at the scrape of noisy crying against his eardrums

Rick lifted his arm and settled his hand on Morty’s head, smoothing the hair as Morty wept and cried into his chest.

“You know-you know better than to think some, some stupid Federation jail can hold me forever, Morty. An-and I can’t leave you alone for-for a second without you al-almost killing yourself.”

Then Morty was weakly laughing, gasps of air between sobs, trying to find the humor in this shitty moment of a reunion.

“P-please. Y-you can’t leave us, you, you-D-don’t, don’t leave me again. _Please,_ ” Morty whimpered.

Rick swallowed. He couldn’t do this again. He didn’t deserve this. He couldn’t stay and make a mess of their lives, of Morty’s life, again. He couldn’t—

“Don’t-don’t worry, Morty.” He finds himself saying. “Your grandpa’s gonna stick around and we’re gonna-gonna have crazy adventures together and-and I’m-I’m not gonna leave again, Morty. I’m not gonna leave-”

Morty’s giggling and sobbing against his jumpsuit, listening to Rick babble on about Rick and Morty, Rick and Morty for a hundred years, Rick and Morty forever, and the future looks slightly better.

Misery loves company and Cotard’s syndrome can be ignored for a moment if someone reminds you about your bleeding heart.

Things start to look up for the Sanchez family.

 

…

 

Morty slept in the same bed as Rick.

The apartment had only four small rooms: the kitchen, Beth's room, Summer’s room, a bathroom, and Morty's room. The couch that was crammed in the corner with a crappy T.V. wasn’t really a couch anymore, with its flat cushions, rips and tears exposing the yellow memory foam, and its pungent musky odor that emitted from stains that came from spilled….substances.

Initially, Rick had vehemently refused Morty’s offer, wanting to sleep on the floor or the couch than share a bed with his grandson.

But Beth ~~Smith~~ Sanchez was having none of it.

(“Dad, I swear to God, if you do not sleep on a proper fucking bed for once, I strap you arms and legs to the bed posts until you fall asleep or pass out, whatever comes first. No, I don’t care if you just got out of prison; I am not letting you sleep on the couch or on the filthy floor, you are sleeping in a bed. This is not up for debate. Am I clear? _Am I crystal fucking clear, Dad?_ ”)

So yes, Rick ended up sleeping with Morty. It was a full mattress; they had a few inches of space to move around, to toss and turn without bothering the other person too much.

Morty did not object to this arrangement. At first.

The weight of Rick on the other side of the bed made Morty shudder and twitch in a cold sweat. His body remembered so many other times where another who looked just like Rick but wasn’t _his_ Rick laid only a few inches away from him, flushed and shining with sweat, a murmuring, raspy voice asking if they could go again, and a hand gliding over his hip, toward his inner thigh--

But it would be stupid to think his Rick would want to touch him like that.

They still lingered, memories and dreams of a thousand hands stroking him and caressing his body. He smokes in bed in an attempt to relax enough to go to sleep without dreaming of his grandfather touching him. Rick complains of the ashes in the sheets and the scent of weed and cigarettes in the room.

_Morty, there’s a time and place to smoke weed. It smells like, like a fucking pot farm in here. The least you can do is sweep the ashes to the fucking floor._

Morty only offers him the blunt. Rick takes it, sucks in a hit, and scoffs at its quality.

It would not be entirely unwelcome, the glide of hand over skin. It was a coin flip, a relationship that could stay as it was and grow as it could or—

Or take another route so many other Ricks and Mortys have taken. The coin was standing on its edge; Morty could feel it teeter back and forth. It almost grated on his nerves, the uncertainty churning in his lower back and shooting up his spine.

He hates it. He hates the shakes that take hold of him at night, hates the familiar breathing in the other side of the bed that reminds him of the hundreds of Ricks he’s been fucked by.

But most of all, he hates the way he can’t stop thinking about it.

So, one night in bed, on the rare occasion Rick goes to sleep around the same time as him, Morty flips around to face at Rick.

Rick has this half-asleep look on his face, almost peaceful. His eyes are squinting at Morty, trying to calculate his next move. He opens his mouth, trying to say something-

Morty squeezes his eyes close and presses his lips to Rick’s lips.

And Morty feels…nothing. His eyes open to stare into Rick’s unresponsive ones.

A moment passes. Rick grasps Morty's shoulders and gently pushes him away. He turns away from Morty, gets up, and leaves the room. Morty doesn’t try to stop him.

Rick sleeps on the couch for the night. And the next night. And the night after that.

Morty feels so fucking stupid.

He’s just a former whore who couldn’t handle sleeping in a bed with someone so they fuck up a relationship that never exhibited any romantic vibes in the first fucking place by kissing the other person in an effort to repair their disturbed state of mind.

_Congratulations, Morty. You get Rick back but you push him away again because you can’t handle sharing a bed with him. Whoop-de-fucking-do._

Morty curls his knees up to his chest, trying to create some warmth in the cold bed. He hears the door open and close, footsteps approaching the bed. He turns his head.

Rick is looking at him and sighing, shaking his head as he slides into bed with Morty.

“MmERRGHHorty. You have some, some shit to sort through, don’t you? Wh-what--? Fuck it. I’m, I’m not gonna ask about it. It’s none of my business, alright?” He grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Don’t, don’t- just don’t try that shit again, Morty. It’s-it’s fucking weird.”

“O-okay, Rick.” Morty turned and faced the cracked plaster wall, the body beside him shifting and stilling into a doze. Tiny lights wink to him from the small window.

They go to sleep and Morty can breathe without choking on cigarette smoke.

…

“We need to talk, Grandpa Rick.”

Summer leaned against the doorframe of the tiny room, arms crossed.

It has been a few months since Rick had broken out of prison but still Summer looks at him as if he’ll disappear any moment. Beth started crying when she saw Rick standing in the kitchen and refused to let him out of her sight for three days. Rick had brought another source of income to the household with his black market dealings, allowing for Summer to cut back on her work hours and to stop making deals with…whatever the fuck she talked to at night. Morty’s late night excursions stopped about a week after Rick came back. He went out once to, quote Morty, “finish some business.”

Fuckin’ weirdo.

(‘Business’ was informing the madam he was no longer working at the brothel (“Tch, your services were greatly valued here. Feel free on coming back.”). Not because he had enough money, but because Morty knew it was only a matter of time before Rick found out and he was not ready to let that ugly cat out of the bag.

It was also Alize hugging him as she boarded a tiny yellow ship. It was a peck on the cheek (it burned slightly), a slip of paper into his hand, and watching flaming hair and green skin disappear behind a metal door, two hands waving and a voice shouting, _See you later, Morty!_

He has a new reason to finish the portal gun now _._

It was Lolant inviting him to watch a movie about snow monsters falling in love against all odds. He politely declined tomorrow’s showing and rain checked to next week.

Days pass and the Earth keeps spinning.)

Jerry's absence had both elated and infuriated Rick. On one hand, the fucker was finally gone. On the other, that piece of shit left his daughter alone and depressed with his kids working their asses off all because he couldn’t get a fucking job. Rick had half-made plans to track the asshole down and make his life a living hell. But that was for later.

There was an unsaid tension within the apartment, a breath held, something anticipating an unforeseen climax. Rick didn’t like how Summer and Morty danced around the subjects of money and employment when he inquired about what they did to survive while he was gone. As if there was some deep shit going on with the kids and Beth.

He knew Beth was depressed, that was obvious. But the kids. The kids were acting like there wasn’t an elephant in the room when there was a big pile of elephant shit in the center.

Rick sighed and put down the screwdriver he was holding. He turned to Summer and felt for his flask along the inside pocket of his lab coat. He took a sip and belched, eyeing Summer's shadowy figure in the doorway. “About what, Summer?”

She stepped into the garage and closed the door behind her. Fuck. This was some serious shit then, huh?

“We need to talk about Morty.”

Rick snorted. “What about him? That he’s masturbating in the kitchen again?”

Not about the scratches and scars Rick saw in the kid’s arms and legs when they both stepped into the artificial light of the kitchen. Not about the cold sweats that covered Morty at night. Not about the bags under his eyes or about the (slowly, oh so slowly) fading bruises along his shoulders and hips. Not about the healing laceration on his right shoulder that looked like it would leave an ugly scar if Morty kept ripping off the bandages Summer applied to it, muttering something about the Pleiades in an opium-induced delirium.

And definitely not about the time Morty kissed him in a shitty effort to fix his fucked up emotions about something Rick didn’t want to get into because Fuck That.

Nah. This can’t be about those things.

(It _can’t_ be.)

Summer ignored his annoyed jab. “Grandpa Rick, do you know exactly what Morty’s been doing to get money? After Dad left?” Summer’s eyebrows furrowed, her eyes trying to gauge his reactions.

“No.” _Yes. Fucking 'massage salon' my ass._

“Then I think you should talk to him about it.”

“Uhh, Summer, I don’t think I’m exactly quaEERPPlified to deal with people’s problems and feelings.” _And I’m not touching that clusterfuck of an issue with a ten-foot pole._

Summer squinted at Rick. “I know you act like you don’t care but I know you care about Morty, at least. You’ve seen how Morty’s been acting this few weeks. I’ve already talked to him. But it… I think you could help him better than I can with this.”

 _Oh **fuck** no_. “A-a-and why’s th-that _Summer_?”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Because, Grandpa Rick, while you’re a dick, you aren’t a total asshole with Morty. Most of the time anyways. That, and I’m pretty sure you have experience with pros- with whatever Morty’s been doing. He stopped, though. Like, a few days after you came back.”

“G-good. He looks like shit.” He paused, considering the outcomes. It couldn’t hurt to tell Morty to get over his shit. He huffed. “Fine. I’ll t-talk to MmERGGHorty w-with-with whatever the fuck he has going on.”

Summer pursed her lips before she turned to leave. Rick picked up the screwdriver and returned to building the particle atomizer. Right before she stepped over the threshold, she paused and quietly said, “Grandpa Rick...”

Rick didn’t turn to look at her. “Yeah, Summer?”

“I- I did the best I could to help Morty. But it wasn’t enough.” Her voice cracked. “I’m sorry.”

 _No one could’ve helped Morty without becoming a fucking whore._ Rick sighed and clicked his tongue. “D-don’t blame yourself for the shit Morty’s done to himself.” _Blame your pussy father for leaving your mother and his fucking kids to fend for themselves in the middle of a Federation staged depression. And plague. Jesus, they’ve really outdone themselves this time._

“Being a p-prosURRGtitute isn’t as shitty as you see on T.V. anyways, Summer. Especially if you do it on your own terms.”

Summer's hand was gripping the doorframe with white-knuckles, fingernails biting into the wood. “Morty didn’t have a choice.”

“And you did everything you could without becoming a hooker yourself. It’s over now. I’ll talk with him. Even if he did it on his own, prostitution can fuck up a _looooot_ of people in the head if they aren’t prepared for all the shit that comes with it,” Rick took a long drink from his flask. “And Morty’s the last person who should become a fucking hooker.”

“Thank you, Grandpa Rick.” The weight of Summer’s presence faded and Rick emptied out the rest of his flask in two long gulps, submerging his thoughts in a familiar haze of unfeeling numbness.

…

“M-morty! Come over h-here for a second. I need t-to-to t-tell you something.” Rick's voice rang from their room, muffled through the walls.

“Coming, Rick.” Morty shouted back, tearing his eyes from the T.V. and reaching for his yellow hoodie. He yanked on the hoodie, covering his forearms. Morty quickly walked to their room where Rick was waiting. He saw his grandfather bent over a particle atomizer, screwing in the bolts.

He cleared his throat. “U-uh, Rick?”

Rick grunted. “What?”

“W-well you called me over here, w-what do you need t-to tell me?”

Rick's back straightened up and his body turned to face Morty. His grandfather’s eyes searched his face, looking for a particular expression to appear.

“Morty, it has come to my attenURPPtion that what you’ve been doing to support your family for the past couple months would frankly make your mother cry if she knew.”

Morty's mouth went dry. “I-I don’t know what y-you’re t-t-talk-”

“Doaghhn't bullshit me, MmERRGHHorty.” Rick belched. “I-I know exactly what you’re been doing. Did. M-morty, listen, I understand w-we all gotta do shit we d-don't like or wanna do but, but we gotta do it anyways.” Rick shook his head.

“But-but you gotta draw a fucking line somewhere, Morty. You gotta, gotta draw a fucking line in the sand and say that-that there’s some shit that you’re not gonna do, okay Morty?”

Morty wasn’t going to deal with this. “W-what exactly are you saying, Rick?”

Rick looked Morty straight in the eye and said, “I’m saying you shouldn’t sell your fucking body to strangers, Morty.”

Something broke in Morty. He felt his face heat up and he couldn’t look at Rick. It didn’t surprise him Rick would find out so quickly. The man had no sense of privacy. But the anger was still there, still simmering, boiling in oil, and the bubbles popped, flinging out scorching droplets that stung anyone who was too close. His teeth clicked together and he bared them at Rick.

 “O-oh, s-so I-I shouldn’t try t-to get some money to keep the lights on?” Morty managed to growl through clenched teeth. “I-I shouldn’t have tried to do something to hel-“

“Morty, shut-shut the fuck up and listen.” Rick cut into his response, unfazed by Morty’s reaction.

“I-I told you already I wasn’t mad at you for-for trying to get money. But what the _fuck_ Morty? D-do you have any idea how easy it is to get raped out there? Y-you’re on-only- what? Fifteen? Sixteen?”

“Sixteen.” Morty gritted out. His birthday was about three months ago.

“An-and what drug did you get-get addicted to, huh, Morty? D-don't lie, you-you’ve been shaking like your balls are frozen. Y-you think it’s bad n-now? With th-the shakes and puking, right? Going cold turkey is a long, shitty road to relapse, Morty, y-you dummy. You- you’ve been fucking yourself over all this time, haven’t you? Get- get your dumbass over here.”

Rick held out his hand, gesturing his fingers inward. Morty obediently walked over until there was only a few feet of space between them.

Rick grabbed Morty's arm and pulled the hoodie's sleeve up, exposing the scars and bruises underneath. Morty gave no resistance, knowing there was no escape.

Something seemed to deflate in Rick as he recognized the origin of the scratches and light scars. Rick clicked his tongue as he inspected the ridges. “Well, at least it isn’t Neptunian heroin or Helioian morphine.” He released the young boy's arm. Morty let it drop to his side.

“S-so what’re you on? Or-or did you get a STD?”

 “I-I’m-I’m not on anything. And I’m not dirty. It’s-it’s-I need more sleep or-or s-something.”

“Really? Do-do you think I’m an idiot, MmERGHHorty?”

Morty looked away and rubbed his arm. “I-I-I got ad-addicted to K-Lax for a few months but-but Al- a friend helped me get off the stuff by-by making me go cold turkey.”

“And was it fun, _Morty_?” Rick said in a mocking tone.

Morty glared at him and spat out, “No. No, it fucking wasn’t.”

“Well, later I still wanna do bloodwork on you to check if there’s any drugs left in your system or if you got a STD—“

“I-it wasn’t like I slept with the crackheads on the street, Rick. I-I checked myself every two weeks. I told you, I’m-I’m not dirty, j-jeez Rick.”

“I don’t care, Morty. You-you don’t know if someone slipped some eggs in your ass to hatch in an incubated cavity or-or something. Just-just stop being a pussy and let me do the bloodwork tomorrow, MmERRGGHorty.”

“F-fine.”

“But I wouldn’t have to do it if you hadn’t slept around, you little punk ass bitch.”

Morty’s fists clenched at his sides. He stared at a grease spot on the concrete floor, its surface dully reflecting the yellow glare of the flickering lamp lights.

 _This is bullshit._ He lifted his head and met his grandfather's eyes. “A-am I s-supposed to be as-ashamed of myself or-or something?”

Rick shrugged, uncaring. “I-I personally don’t give a fuck what most people do for a living. I’ve, I've done some weird shit, s-so it’s not my place to judge. Prostitution itself is just a thing. But-but you being a hooker is generally a bad thing because you’re-you’re only in your teens and supposed to be worrying about-about the size of your dick, not-not selling your body. But-but you don’t have to degrade yourself in that field to where-where you have no balls left. ” He tilted his head at Morty.

“Are you ashamed of yourself, Morty?”

Morty remembered—

_\--looking down and seeing himself in the scared alien’s eyes. This one arrived in the ghettos only a few days ago, wandering the streets, making fumbling attempts to pickpocket people who have less than nothing, sleeping in the alleyways where they definitely shouldn’t sleep. The ragged… whatever it is, no one’s really sure— is cowering away from him in the corner, uncertain in how to approach people, how to profit, how to survive-_

_He extends a hand to the pitiful thing, waiting for it to either take the offer or refuse it._

_The thing (a young one too, can’t be more than ten or twelve in human terms) raised its head and eyed Morty’s extended hand._

_The child takes it._

_Alize takes one look at Newtblood and immediately points to the mechanics shop across the street._

_“He might find work with the owner there. Heard her last assistant died in a planned driveby. That’s why you shouldn’t piss off the Ma Li Sha.”_

_Newtblood has good hands so the Mechanic takes them. He sleeps in the back with the spare parts on a cot and eat whatever the Mechanic gives them. He has bruises from where tools are thrown at them whenever he doesn’t respond quickly enough to the Mechanic’s directions but he tell Morty he’s happy._

_“I’m…okay. I think she likes me. She calls me ‘mijo’ and ‘pequeno’ sometimes and gives me lots of bread. Don’t worry about the bruises; she knows I have a thick skull. Like, really thick. Thank you for helping me.”_

_Morty smiles and gives Newtblood his phone number, just in case he ever want to talk._

_Maybe things aren’t so—_

He looked at his hands, nails bitten and cuticles speckled with dried blood. “N-not anymore.”

“Good. You s-shouldn't be ashamed for-for trying to support your family when the world's gone to shit. Becoming a hooker takes a looot of balls, Morty. A- and I’m- I’m-” He struggled saying the word.

“—I’m _sorry_ you had to do that. You sh-shouldn't have- you didn’t have to do that. I should’ve –I should’ve-,” Rick was turned away from him. Morty could hear the cracks in Rick's voice. “I left to give you a future. But that-that -this isn’t much of a future, is it?”

“Rick…”, Morty breathed. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes and fell to the grease spotted floor, dark circles dotting the fabric of worn red sneakers.

His grandfather took a shuddering breath as he continued. “But, Morty. You don’t have to go on the streets and fuck poor assholes anymore. You’re- you’re not alone anymore, okay Morty? It’s-it's just you and me, Rick and Morty, a hundred years and-and we're, we're gonna-gonna run around, just you and me, Rick and Morty, and-and- Morty? Morty?”

The stars were burning themselves onto the insides on his eyelids and Morty was laughing with tears in his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> title and lyrics taken from Jupiter Grayscale - Gallant (prod. Maths Time Joy)


End file.
